A Custom Fit Crime (5 page)

Jeanette just nodded. She didn’t seem overly impressed, which meant Michel Ralph Beaulieu probably had a higher-end steamer. I turned it on so it could warm up, and made idle chitchat. “How long have you worked for Beaulieu?”

“Almost a year,” she said. She bit her lower lip and darted a quick glance over her shoulder. “I’m sorry about what he said out there. He forgets his manners sometimes. He’s usually not this bad.”

Forgets? I wasn’t sure his mama ever taught him any in the first place. “It’s fine,” I said. It was a lie, but I was a good Southern woman and wasn’t about to bad-talk Jeanette’s boss no matter how much of a numbskull he happened to be.

“You really worked with Maximilian?” she asked as she hung the dress on the steamer’s hanger. “Beaulieu is determined to surpass his success one day.”

I just nodded. If Beaulieu’s dreams were based solely on one-upping Maximilian, then I felt sorry for him. He could dis me all he wanted, but I liked who I was and what I created. I didn’t need to one-up anyone.

I left Jeanette to her steaming and went back to the front room. Beaulieu had been riffling through my designs on the portable clothing rack while Midori had been flipping through my lookbook. When I reappeared, they joined me at the dress forms. “Ready,” I said to Lindy and Quinton. It was high time to get this show on the road and get back to the wedding plans, which, now that I thought about it, was all I really wanted to do.

Meemaw made her presence known by clanking the pipes, making them moan and creak during the photo shoot. It was a response, I suspected, to Beaulieu’s under-his-breath mutterings as he poked around my shop, shaking his head and wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “How can you live here?” he asked me, staring at the ceiling after a particularly loud reverberation.

“Family and history,” I said. “Being in my great-grandmother’s home makes me feel closer to her.”

He smirked, as if family were the worst possible reason to do anything. Clearly it was a fundamental difference between us. I’d come to realize that family was the best reason to do anything, and that being back at 2112 Mockingbird Lane meant that Loretta Mae wasn’t gone from my life.

I was dotted with sweat by the time Quinton was done snapping me sitting at Loretta Mae’s old Singer, by one of my garments, and standing, arms folded across my chest, in front of the privacy screen that doubled as a changing room. The screen resembled oversized window shutters connected by antique hinges. I’d taken down some of the fabric I normally kept draped over the side, and positioned just one hanger with a dress that perfectly represented my country girl design perspective, from one of the upper slats.

He ended the shoot by having the three of us—Midori, Beaulieu, and me—in front of our dress forms, one of each of our pieces showcased behind us. I snuck a glance on either side of me. Neither one of the other designers smiled, but me? I was giddy. I stood next to two of the top designers of our time—inside Buttons & Bows—and I was going to be in
D Magazine
. I couldn’t help it. One side of my mouth lifted. This was a proud moment.

“We’re good,” Quinton finally said. He kept his camera handy but wandered to the sitting area and the tray of glasses Mama had set out, hemming and hawing as he picked up first one, then another, and a third canning jar from the array. Finally he settled on one and poured himself a tall drink of sweet tea from the pitcher next to the lemonade. He settled back while Midori stretched out on the red velvet settee and Beaulieu sat on the love seat, absently flipping through a home decor magazine, scowling as if he could hardly stand the feel of the paisley fabric.

Lindy Reece stood by the rack of ready-to-wear clothes just outside the little area. “Thanks for making the trip out here for the shoot,” she began, addressing Midori and Beaulieu.

“It was a mistake. I feel ill,” Beaulieu said under his breath, but loudly enough to make sure we all heard.

Unbidden, a line from a Taylor Swift song flitted into my head.
Why’d you have to be so mean?
It was a good question, but one I couldn’t answer. I gave up trying to figure him out. I had to get through the rest of today. Gracie and her friend Holly would be wearing my garments. As long as I focused on them, I could keep Beaulieu and his ornery attitude at bay.

“Yes, well, it’ll be worth it in the end,” the journalist said. “Concessions must often be made for the sake of a story.”

Mama came into the room just in time to hear this snippet of conversation, fresh pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade in her hands. She stopped short just behind where Beaulieu sat. She raised her arms and my heart seized.

She lifted the pitchers higher.

I started. She wouldn’t dare

The pitcher tilted forward, the amber liquid sloshing.

Oh Lord. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t! “Mama . . . ,” I said with a hiss.

She blinked, caught my eye, and instantly pulled her arm back. Instead of splashing onto Beaulieu, the tea sloshed over the spout of the pitcher and onto the floor.

Beaulieu must have sensed what had almost happened. He whipped around, gently patting his hand over the gelled hairs of his faux hawk. “What the hell’s the matter with you people?”

“You people?” Nana said, venom dripping from her heavy Southern accent. She’d been hanging back, sitting on the steps of the staircase, the scallop-edged skirt in her lap, a threaded needle gripped between a rubber-encased index finger and thumb, but now she surged forward. I threw my arm out, stopping her from plowing straight into Beaulieu.

“Nana, don’t,” I said. The last thing I wanted was for Lindy Reece to get a bunch of ammunition to write about the crazy Cassidy family from Bliss. It might sell magazines, but not for the right reasons.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Mama might have done with that pitcher of tea, and Beaulieu wasn’t about to let it go. “You’re all hillbillies,” he spit. He was laying it on thick.

My arm still held Nana back. She tensed, but stayed put.

“Michel—”

He cut me off and his attention cut back to me like a guard dog suddenly training his attention on a new sound. “This place . . .” He gestured to the room at large. “You’re a disgrace to the fashion industry.”

And like a worn length of elastic stretched too thin, I snapped. My open palm flew to my chest and I felt heat rise to the surface of my skin. “You’re in
my
hometown,” I said, my voice raw and edgy. “This is my home . . . and my business. How dare you come in here and call us hillbillies and . . . and . . . ?”

“And a disgrace to fashion,” Nana whispered in my ear, as if I could forget.

“Right, and a disgrace. My designs are . . . are . . .” I saw the dress Jeanette had taken from the garment bag and pressed, registered somewhere in the back of my mind that it was familiar, and remembered what Orphie had said about Beaulieu. She wasn’t the only one who’d borrowed a design from someone else. “They are original,” I said.

A collective gasp went up all around. Jeanette lost her grip on her oversized shoulder bag. It fell with a thud, her wallet, lip gloss, and other personal items spilling onto the floor. Orphie pressed her fingers to her mouth. Midori, Mama, Nana, and even Beaulieu himself stared at me. It had been a veiled accusation, and one that I couldn’t take back now that it had been spoken aloud, much as I wished I could.

“You must be the only virtuous one left in this room,” he said, looking around, pausing on each person as if he knew some big secret about each and every one of them. He ended on Jeanette, holding out the magazine he’d been perusing. I stared, flabbergasted, as she stood from collecting her things, hurriedly taking the glossy from him and setting it back on the table. As if he couldn’t have reached the table himself. Diva. It was the only word that came to mind. And Jeanette was his lackey.

The scratching of Lindy’s pen against her notepad sounded magnified, but my blood pounded in my ears and drowned it out, the sound louder than a thunderous summer storm. “Not virtuous, but honest.” Orphie had experienced a blip in that virtue, but I bet that deep down she wished she could turn back the clock and take back her momentary lapse of judgment.

Beaulieu just kept talking. “All of you think you deserve success more than I do, is that it? Why? Because I didn’t grow up poor? Because I’m a man?”

“Michel—”

He held up a hand, stopping the rest of his name from slipping off my tongue. “My work will stand on its own. My designs will blow your mind, and anyone who reads the article and sees what I do will know that you”—he pointed at me—“and you”—he pointed at Midori—“are outclassed. Neither one of you should be here.”

I could picture him sitting on a stool, ranting to some television producer about his sob story, going for the sympathy vote from the viewing public, only this wasn’t Project Runway, Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn were nowhere to be found, and I wasn’t feeling any sympathy for the man. He was boorish and . . . and . . . and just downright uncivil.

Someone’s stomach rumbled. As if the sound triggered a Pavlovian response, Midori reached for a glass and poured herself some lemonade. Jeanette followed, and before long, everyone had a chunky Mason jar filled with sweet tea or lemonade and was munching on a treat from the plate Mama had placed on the coffee table. She might be mad as all get out at Beaulieu, but she wouldn’t deny him one of her famous almond icebox cookies. Nana had brought two containers of her goat cheese, along with a package of rice crackers. Then Mama offered to make fried chicken for lunch, but Beaulieu shook his head.

“I’m going to lunch before the outdoor shoot with the models.” He downed the rest of his tea, put his empty glass back on the coffee table, and shot a scathing look at Jeanette. “Make sure everything’s ready,” he said. “After it’s done, we’re going back to Dallas.”

She nodded, her face blank, but her throat pulsed. She could try, but her body betrayed her emotions.

Beaulieu stormed off to the bathroom again, leaving the rest of us feeling muddled and angry. Calling him horrible was an understatement, and I felt enormously sorry for Jeanette. I already had Gracie Flores, but if I’d needed another assistant, I would have hired her just to save her from her horrid boss.

Midori gathered up the Mason jar glasses on the tray and carried them back to the kitchen. Quinton had gathered his camera gear and was at the door, Lindy by his side. “We’ll get a bite to eat, then meet you back here. Six models, right?”

“Two for each of us, yes—”

A chilling scream ripped through the air, zapping the rest of the words from my mouth.

My heart shot to my throat and I surged past Jeanette, through the dining room—and smack into Midori, who stood stone-still in the center of the kitchen. She fell into me, knocking my glasses awry, her feet twisting with mine. I caught her wrists, holding her upright as she gripped my upper arms. “What’s wrong?” All I could think was that an enormous Texas spider was loose, or that Meemaw was playing practical jokes.

“M-m-m . . .” Midori got stuck on the first letter, and my mind jumped to Meemaw. Except that Midori didn’t know Meemaw, and certainly would not attribute any otherworldly goings-on inside Buttons & Bows to my great-grandmother.

“M-m-m . . . ,” I mused, and then it hit me. “Michel?”

Behind me, Jeanette gasped.

Midori pointed past me. I turned, following her gaze to the half-open door of the bathroom . . . and to the sprawled body on the floor.

“B-B-Beaulieu,” Midori stammered. And then she said what I already knew. “H-h-he’s d-d-dead.”

A million thoughts raced through my mind, but I shoved them all away as I barreled past Midori. “No, no, no,” I muttered. This couldn’t be happening again. He’d been fine a minute ago. He couldn’t be dead!

I fell to my knees beside him, pressing my fingers against the flesh of his neck. No pulse. No rise and fall of his chest. I lowered my head, listening for any trace of ragged or faint breathing.

Nothing.

My pounding heart climbed to my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut as if that would make this nightmare go away. But when I opened them again, my head grew fuzzy and my vision blurred. From somewhere behind me, Jeanette and Midori sobbed, but all I could see was Michel flat on the floor in front of me, his nose bloodied, his face drawn and pale.

He was most definitely dead.

It took about two shakes before Hoss McClaine showed up to gather up control of the situation. A dead man in the dressmaking shop wasn’t an everyday occurrence in Bliss. Madelyn Brighton, one of my best friends and the official town photographer, showed up, too. Lickety-split, she snapped pictures, wrapped up her photographic cataloging of the scene, and Bliss’s finest made a preliminary assessment. Massive coronary. It was unusual given Beaulieu’s age, but it was the obvious explanation.

We’d all told the same story. Lindy and Quinton had arrived first, followed by Midori and Beaulieu and then Jeanette.

“His bad attitude might could have made his heart stop tickin’,” Mama told her fiancé sheriff, nodding as if that were surely the explanation. I wasn’t as convinced that his orneriness had done him in. He was likely cursed with bad genes, poor man.

Beaulieu’s body had been taken away and all that was left was a heavy pall hanging over my shop. Well, that and Deputy Gavin McClaine, who stood in front of me with his legs apart, a Bliss Sheriff’s Department cap on his head, and a disdainful scowl on his face. True, Beaulieu was dead, and also true, it was a horrible turn of luck that it happened at Buttons & Bows. But there was nothing sinister about it. Nothing that warranted the deputy sheriff hanging around—if you didn’t count the fact that this was the fourth dead body I’d been associated with in recent months. My misfortune.

The deputy had been back in Bliss a few months less than I had, and I still had trouble reconciling the shy boy he’d been back in school with the cocky deputy he’d grown up to be. No more ninety-pound weakling. He was lean and lanky and full of attitude. And from the googly eyes Orphie was making at him, she’d noticed, too.